


Mother's Love

by tyanite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something wrong with Sam, but it’s okay, because Dean is here to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother's Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't Make it Bad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245687) by [Fallynleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf). 



> I wanted to try my hand at writing a Demon!Dean as I thought he should have been in the show.
> 
> Sorry for the second person, I do hope you enjoy it though!
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always welcome!

Dean glances at you again and looks annoyed.

“You’re staring again, Sammy,” he snaps. “Stop it.”

You swallow hard against the tightness in your throat and shake your head. “I just don’t get it, dude,” you say, partially to justify the staring, partially to hear it once more. You hope that somehow, hearing the story repeated will make you believe more, will make it seem real.

Dean sighs, frustration on the surface but repeats it for you, anyways. “I’m telling you, there is nothing _t_ o get. Crowley brought me back to settle the debt for killing Abaddon for him, that’s it.”

“That’s it.” You repeat.

“Now seriously, stop staring at me.” Dean says, flicking a scrap of paper your direction. “I’m fine.”

 

* * *

 

He lasts about a couple of days (which is what you expected, really,) before he starts clawing up the walls and itching for a hunt.

You’re worried, annoyed even that he would put so little time between _death_ and _back on the job_ , knowing that if it were you, he would never let you go even near a newspaper for weeks, but because its him, and because he is Dean, he can jump right back into the arena like nothing happened.

You make him wait a full week, seven agonizing days, before you finally, finally relent and you find an open-and-shut salt-and-burn in Oklahoma, and Dean was so happy to be out and hunting again that you weren’t even annoyed when he blasted Kansas the entire way down. You might have even sung along with him a few times.

And yeah, okay, maybe this case was criminally easy but you didn’t want to take any risks. Hell, you’re only tossed around once, sent flying back from the grave and crashing into the wet grass. You hear Dean yell your name and then not much else, because the vengeful spirit manifested itself in front of you and you can’t breath.

Until it goes up in flames and Dean is suddenly there, back lit from the fire in the open grave, his hands searching for injury or blood or something, but you bat his hands away and cough. “I’m fine,” you say and you can feel Dean staring at you but you can’t see his face, not in the dark. His hands twitch, as if he is fighting the instinct to sweep again for injury, but you stand up before he can and shake off the sensation of ghostly fingers around your neck.

This is the part where you rebury the body, fill the hole back up with earth and leave before dawn breaks, but as you reach for the shovel Dean says, “hold up a minute,” and you pause, turning to him.

He’s standing over the grave, looking down at the burning bones. They cast a strange, orange and yellow glow, and against the ink of night, it looks like a doorway straight to hell. After what feels like a very long time, Dean moves away from the pit and takes his own shovel and throws a pile of dirt on top of the flames, causing them to stutter and you join in, smothering the flames.

When Dean finally meets your questioning gaze, he shrugs and throws another pile of dirt into the grave. “I wanted to watch ‘im burn a little longer.” He says, and you don’t have anything to say to that so you don’t say anything at all. It’s always easier to fill graves than to empty them, you think.

 

* * *

 

"And the Mark of Cain?” You ask, staring down at Dean's bare arm and he matches your gaze. “Things like that don't just go away, Dean.”

“I’m fine,” Dean shrugs. “Blade’s gone, so its effects must be gone too, right?”

You’ve been getting the distinct impression that Dean is lying to you, but you can’t say for sure, there is no evidence to the contrary, just the pinpricks at the back of your mind and your suspicions.

 

* * *

 

Dean hovers around you like at any minute your likely to shatter and your getting pretty annoyed with it.

“I’m fine” you say again, “seriously, it’s not that bad.”

It was your fault anyway, you let your guard down on a hunt and the werewolf you were hunting got the drop on you. It was only really surface wounds, and it certainly didn’t bite you, but if you were to believe Dean, you only missed the jaws of death by a breath.

 

* * *

 

You’ve gotten nightmares, waking in terror with snatches of dreams fading so fast from you, you cannot hold onto them when you try.

Sometimes you think you hear Dean moving around in the bunker, no matter what time of the night, sometimes you think you see a shadow in your doorway, your door open but you closed it that night, sometimes you swear you can see someone standing in your room.

But you’re alone, your door is closed and Dean is well rested and sharp in the morning, so you shake your head and drink your coffee and let it slip away with the rest of the nightmare.

 

* * *

 

Something doesn’t sit right in Dean’s story and you stare at him trying to puzzle out the lie from the truth.

He says, “Cas is busy with Heaven and stuff,”

He says, “I talked to him, dude, you can stop worrying. He knows I’m back, he’s just got too much on his plate to visit.”

He says, “you know how Cas is, seriously, don’t worry about it.”

He says, “if Cas really needed us, you know he would come right to us, so no news is good news as far as I’m concerned.”

He says, “we’re fine, Sammy, quit asking!”

 

* * *

 

The hunt wracked up a higher body count than it should have. No—Dean was racking up a higher body count than he should have.

You’ve started counting.

Aside from the ghosts, the two werewolves, the entire nest of vampires (Dean had cleared out before you even got through the entrance), the coven of four witches, and the Djinn, bodies start cropping up all around the area, and when you suggest checking it out, Dean finally admitted they were Demons that he’d been clearing out.

Dean’s been top of his game, sharper than ever, smiling and covered in blood after a hunt and singing Styx while he cleans his blade. You keep a tally notched onto your knuckles as you think about it.

You haven’t seen a demon since Abaddon, but Dean seems to be seeing a lot of them. Killing a lot of them, too. You can’t get an exact number from him at all.

You’re beginning to wonder if Dean was ever really fine.

 

* * *

 

You’ve been getting headaches—migraines that put you out for entire days, but Dean takes care of you, bringing you pills and then soup when the headaches turn to fever, turn to shaking and more nightmares. Dean puts his hand on your head and it feels like ice.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I’m gonna take care of you.”

You’re not okay, but Dean is here, so that makes everything better, somehow.

 

* * *

 

Dean won’t let you research, won’t even let you touch a case.

He says you’re too sick to do anything like that, and when you insist that maybe this illness isn’t natural, that maybe something is doing this to you, his expression gets grim and his jaw sets and he promises to find out what’s happening to you. But he won’t let you help.

You realize it’s been weeks since you were outside of the bunker. Maybe even months. When you ask if you can leave, Dean just shakes his head and says “you aren’t well,” and “it’s not safe for you, Sammy,” and you humor him because when he is gone, on a hunt, you can figure it out for yourself.

 

* * *

  

You are certain Dean is lying to you about something, but you just cannot pick it out.

It is driving you insane, and when Dean’s phone explodes one afternoon, text after text after text pinging through before he can silence it, you loose it.

“What the hell is going on with you, man?” you demand, slamming your hands on the table but it is not as strong or intimidating as you want it to be. It’s weak, but so are you. “You’ve been keeping things from me, haven’t you?”

“What? Sammy, that’s stupid” Dean says, dismissive, indignant. “I haven’t been keeping anything from you.”

“Then what the hell is that?!” You gesture at the phone.

“Some chick I hooked up with last week.” Dean says, “she stole my number off my phone while I was asleep and won’t stop hitting me up.”

He is lying, you know it. But when you try to see the lie, looking for all his cues, Dean’s tells that you know like the back of your hand, you can’t see anything. It’s like he is speaking the truth but it’s a lie and you know it.

“I’m just worried about you, man.” You say, your voice sounding small even to your own ears.

“Worried about me?“ Dean repeats. “I’ve been worried about you, Sam. You’re sick, and you’re clearly not in your right mind.”

“I think there is something wrong with you, Dean.” You try again.

He stands and gives you that stare that reminds you so much of Dad. The kind of look that brooks no argument and can only be answered with a ‘yes sir,’ or ‘no sir,’ and nothing else. “Go to bed, Sammy. I won’t say it again.”

You almost fight him on it, but your getting too tired, so you trudge off to your bed and try not to feel like a child as you fall onto your bed and into uneasy rest.

 

* * *

 

You’re bad when Dean’s there, but you’re worse when he is away.

He’ll leave on a hunt and for a day maybe, you’ll be okay, but then things become unbearable. The nightmares, the fever, the tremor, you cough up blood and struggle with pain so bad you are rendered immobile.

Sometimes on these nights, you dream of cool hands stroking your forehead, comforting motions and movements. But you are alone in the bunker, until Dean returns and slowly brings you out of it.

You keep wake up with ‘Hey Jude,’ stuck in your head.

 

* * *

 

The thought comes to you when Dean gives you lunch of tomato and rice soup and the thought frightens you so much, you cannot even stomach more than a couple of spoonfuls. You try to shake the thought but it won’t go away, and it scares you so much, you think you might just choke on it.

When Dean leaves for groceries, to restock on medicine and other necessities and you clutch your phone and dial Cas’ number before you really can stop yourself or think it through.

You didn’t expect him to pick up, nor did you expect the coughing or the weak, “Sam?” that came through the other end.

“Cas?” You ask, your thoughts momentarily derailed. “What’s going on?”

“Did Hannah message you, too?” He says, the stress evident in his voice. “I thought I stopped her, but—“

“What?” You frown. “Are you…?” You let the question hang, unable to finish or complete it. You didn’t really know what should go in that space.

“I’m fine.” Cas says and then coughs and your almost relieved you can pick out a lie.

“Cas…”

“Why…Why did you call?” He asks, tentatively, and his voice is raw and pained. “Is everything—“ There is a pause as Cas has another coughing fit, and you wait until it subsides and you wonder if maybe he is as sick as you are.

“Cas, you, uh,” you swallow hard, nervous to put your thoughts into words, like speaking your fears would make them true. “You don’t suppose that when Dean came back to life…that he was, well…That maybe the Dean that came back wasn’t all Dean?”

“What?” You can practically see the Angel now, sitting up and sitting forward, his large blue eyes growing intense. “What happened, Sam? Tell me.”

“It’s nothing.” You protest, but it’s weak. There is a long pause, and you swallow because you really don’t want to articulate this, because this is Dean for God’s sake, and you have no right to even think this. “It’s just…Uh, well. I’ve been sick and I got to thinking that maybe…Maybe he was…” _poisoning me_ “…doing something. To me. To make me sick. But, that’s crazy, right? Dean would never do anything to hurt me, right?”

“Of course not, Sam.” Cas says, his voice quiet. “Dean would do anything for you.”

You decide to bite the bullet at this point, because you’ve made it this far, and the pain in Cas’ voice is just too much for you to bare. “Look, I know you are real busy with Heaven and stuff, but don’t you think you could come by to visit? Just for a little? I’m sure Dean would love to see you and I’d feel a lot better if…” _if you could prove that my brother is still my brother._

There is a long silence on the other end.

“Cas?”

“I—“ He cuts off, then starts again. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Sam.”

“What? Why not?”

“Just…believe me,” Cas says. “It won’t work.”

“Did Dean say something? Did he tell you to stay away?”

“Sam.” Cas’ voice is firm this time. “No.”

“Cas, wait.” You cry and you can actually hear him pause, so you barrel on ahead. “Look, if you won’t come here then at least…I can’t do anything here, so you can at least…see if you can find out anything about Crowley. Maybe he’ll…” _maybe he’ll know what is wrong with Dean_.

You can tell Cas isn’t happy about it, but he agrees to it anyway.

“Thanks Cas,” You tell him. “You’re the best.”

He doesn’t say anything, simply hangs up the line and at least Cas hasn’t gotten any better at goodbyes.

 

* * *

 

You wake in the middle of the night, your throat burning and your mouth tasting like blood. You stumble out of bed and are in the process of loosing your dinner in the bathroom when Dean finds you.

His hand on your back is ice cold and he doesn’t say much, just helps you clean up and you swear you can see him smiling as he puts you back in bed, and leaves as quietly as he arrived, shutting the door behind him.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand only moments after the door shuts and you are almost relieved at the timing. Cas had texted you, short and simple: _Can you talk?_

You wait a few moments before sitting up and pressing Cas’ number. He picks up before the first ring even finishes properly and says, immediately: “Crowley is dead.” 

You falter, caught by his suddenness and the nature of his announcement. “I’m sorry, what?” you say, at a loss.

“Crowley is dead.” Cas repeats, slower this time. “Apparently Hell has been in disorder, trying to find a new King.”

“How did you find this, Cas?” You say, mostly astonished, disbelieving.

“I interrogated several Demons,” Cas says, his voice low and serious, “all of them said the same thing.”

“But how? And who killed him?”

“They wouldn’t say.”

“That’s a lie.” You say.

“Sam…”

“What did they tell you, Cas?” Castiel sighs. “They said another Demon did it.”

“Another Demon? But who?”

Cas falls silent and something terrible crosses your mind but you are afraid to tell him, afraid that once you start speaking, you won’t be able to stop the flood of fears and accusations and no, no you just can’t.

You hang up the phone with shaking fingers and peel yourself off the bed and stagger down to the archives, to the dungeon.

 

* * *

 

The devils trap in the dungeon is broken.

Its a line so small, you almost missed it.

You go through the bunkers wards, fighting against the fever and tremors. All of the Devil’s traps had been destroyed, the holy water was gone. You fight back the nausea that creeps up on you when you notice the small dusting of sulfur, so light you never noticed it before but now, it was so clear.

You draw a devil’s trap in paint around your bed with a shaking hand. Then you break it, with a knife. Then you fix the line. And again.

You had to know, but God, you were terrified of what the answer may be.

 

* * *

  

You know you aren’t dreaming, this time. You feel the weight of Dean on your bed, feel his eyes on you and you try not to breath as he hums ‘Hey Jude’ and tucks the blankets in around you. He leans down and kisses you on the forehead and you can feel his smile.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” He says, “I’ve gotcha.”


End file.
